


Chrysalis

by atlaswho



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Sexy Times, sad boys play piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlaswho/pseuds/atlaswho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clear loves Brahms' waltzes, and hasn't played them in a long time. When he finds someone to duet with, it's much sweeter than he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

> Finally this monster is complete.  
> Huge huge thanks to the wonderful [Duca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serbocroatoan) for so diligently editing and correcting this with me, and for being so patient with me.

Clear had never been a person who was blessed with alone time. When he was not at college, he was looking after his grandfather; when he was not looking after his grandfather, he was looking after his brothers, and when his brothers weren't around, Clear was cleaning or cooking or working, or at school. Even in those in between moments, the nurse who had been visiting on regular intervals was usually there as well, asking questions, making notes, giving Clear very specific dietary instructions for his grandfather.

The younger of the two twins, Phi, had commented on the irony of their grandfather becoming ill, with his careful attention to detail and his extensive knowledge of medicine. In his younger days he had been a surgeon and had looked after all three of them with the kind of vigour and care one would expect from a new mother. The boys’ aunt had ushered them to the front door of her father-in-law and left them there, as her one bedroom apartment couldn't hope to house even one of them, let alone all three. For a fleeting moment, they had considered splitting them into two more manageable groups, but the thought of breaking them up further after the loss of their parents was too cruel.

Clear remembered his first night with his grandfather well. He had been ridden with nightmares, flashing images and voices plagued the darkness and it was too much to bear, so much that he couldn't breathe. Al and Phi had crawled into bed with him, snivelling pathetically into the soft cotton of his pyjamas that never stopped smelling of ash and smoke. A gentle knock at the door had stilled them, until they saw their grandfather's gentle gaze on all three of them. A cup of warm milk each sent them right to sleep, with their grandfather watching over them for the rest of the night.

When he fell ill, it was more devastating than any of them could have imagined. Al and Phi became spiky and cut off, began failing their classes and didn't come home on time. To reduce risk to his health, the visiting nurse instructed them all to wear masks when outside to prevent catching anything, no matter how minor, as it was important to keep anything from invading their grandfather’s immune system. The insurance had helped massively. Clear was able to carry on with school, and so were the twins, but it was finite. Cutting back on certain things had been difficult; Clear sold their grand piano, the boys had to take up weekend jobs.

In October their grandfather finally passed away in his sleep. Like pale Russian dolls, the three boys stood in a row at their grandfather's funeral, breathing deeply, dark circles under their eyes stark against their pallid skin.

_You are such brave boys._

_And after their parents, what a shame._

_Hang in there, boys._

_He is in a better place now._

Empty words from people none of them recognised. Who were all these people that they had never met? Work colleagues? Were they distant relatives or friends of the family? Their voices were hollow and rang in their ears like the deep thrum of the church bell; consistent and repetitive, and not in the least bit comforting. They wouldn't stop touching, couldn't help but reach out and grip onto their shoulders. Clear felt their hands against his shoulders like pincers, gripping tight and relentless. What was the purpose of this exercise, exactly, he wondered. Is physical contact something people think is encouraging?

Al and Phi scowled at the strangers and refused to engage a single one, waiting until they had left for their faces to relax. Clear elected not to scold them. Had he the energy, he would have done the same, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the headstone laden in lavender and white roses and honeysuckle. Something about those white roses seemed so inappropriate for a funeral. Who had brought those? Were they aware they were attending a funeral?

Their grandfather was by no means a wealthy man, but had earned enough without having to provide for a family for long enough that he had a reasonable amount saved for the boys. They had spent a total of three weeks in that house before they decided they had to leave. A two bedroom apartment in the city would do them fine, and was well within their budget. They made enough to be able to afford decent internet access as well as enough to do a large hamper of laundry once a week, which suited them just fine.

Clear missed his grand piano.

April was a good time of year, especially in the city. The air was warm and the sun was soft but not overbearing in a way that kept Clear's spirits high, even when he felt like he couldn't leave his bed some mornings. He never wanted to be a lethargic person, and insisted on being the most chipper person in the room most of the time, but the combination of great loss and stress had weighed him down quite considerably. When he was finally able to pull himself out from under the sheets, he knew no amount of sunshine could lift him that day.

Two little pills that sat in his palm would give him the boost he would need. He examined them for a short moment, and a sense of dread filled his belly. They were so tiny, so unimpressive, and the cloud forming over Clear's head seemed to only get heavier. He swallowed them dry.

He didn't get dressed before he left his room to make his morning tea. The kettle boiled before Clear could even move his legs enough to find a lemon to slice. Waiting for his tea to brew, he chopped a generous slice of lemon and squeezed it into his tea, making sure to avoid the pips. He forced himself to eat the congee that he had prepared the night before, fighting an internal battle with every mouthful. Eventually it became too much and he shoved it back in the fridge and dragged his feet back to his room to change.

On his way to class he sucked on coffee through a plastic lid. The caffeine made his heart race uncomfortably under his skin which was enough to keep him alert during classes. He made sure to highlight his notes, colour coordinate them by relevance, creating the illusion of productivity. He wasn't so sure any of the information he was writing was even sinking in. The words didn't read any easier if they were smudged blue ink or underlined in careful and precise red lines.

Clear stared blankly at a black and white copy of _Antony and Cleopatra_ , vaguely aware that he was supposed to be commenting on the importance of physical script structure, but the words didn't look real. His mind wandered and he lost focus and Clear couldn't make his brain _stay still_ for five minutes to read the page. His eyes were drawn to the girl playing on her phone in front of him, her horn rimmed glasses and the haphazard ponytail on top of her head.

_Give me to drink mandragora._

_Why, madam?_

_That I might sleep out this great gap of time  
My Antony is away._

His professor had called Cleopatra a drama queen, but Clear found himself oddly akin to her behaviour. He liked that despite her strength she still felt loss and mourning. She was vulnerable. It gave Clear hope that he wasn't totally lost.

That evening at 7pm Clear received a phone call from his aunt, as he did every Monday of every week. "Good evening." He answered shortly.

"Al told me you have a job." It was more of an accusation than a simple statement. The question was there but it remained unspoken: _Why are you hiding? Why do_ _n't_ _you tell me things?_

"Yes."

"Where are you working?" she asked vacantly. Clear picked his cuticles.

"In the city," he replied. "There's a river by the station." The river was filthy. At low tide you could see traffic cones, the rubber of an old tyre, discoloured mud mixed with man-made debris. Across the river was a garbage disposal warehouse, which frequently filled the air with an array of unpleasant and invasive smells. Clear was glad he had kept his mask.

"That's nice."

Clear never knew why he had to speak to his aunt every Monday of every week. Perhaps she felt guilty for leaving three small newly orphaned children with a man on the verge of retirement, or maybe it was an attempt to reconnect with her deceased sibling. He hung up on her only a few minutes later.

It had not been hard to find work in a city full of white people who were far too interested in Clear's unique appearance. For a brief time he'd worked in a Japanese restaurant. The chef, loud and gaudy, had urged him to 'play up his heritage'. Clear quit a week later and his brothers laughed so hard they choked.

"White people pay out the nose to be ethnic," Phi commented, wiping his eyes, "you could be rich." Al and Phi were both bartenders downtown, each with their own collection of napkins scrawled with phone numbers in chicken scratch handwriting.

Clear ended up working in a library, sorting books alphabetically and labelling new arrivals. His work wasn't stimulating but it gave him peace and quiet, and that was enough.

Marge was an elderly woman that worked the front desk. Her lips were thin with wrinkles that looked like whiskers, and her glasses sat right on the tip of her flat nose. Clear liked her presence very much; she was concise and quiet, did things gently and carefully. When a group of young boys had come in to look up adult books she firmly scolded them with a gentle _thwack_ against their rear ends. She let him take pictures of cracked spines and found it amusing when he buried his nose into a new book to inhale the fresh printed paper. At the end of the day she made sure he rubbed lavender cream into his hands. "You are too young for calloused hands," she would murmur under her breath.

He wanted to tell his aunt that he had found a safe haven: the Library. It sounded magical, a place full of all the world's knowledge. A variety of literature to stimulate the mind and carry him to a better place. He wanted to tell her that he was making decent money and that Al and Phi had started school again. Little lies to put his aged aunt at ease, to soothe the guilt that seemed to cloud her mind whenever she spoke to him.

A faint buzz from the counter interrupted his train of thought. It was a reminder to attend music class tomorrow at 2pm. Clear had signed himself up for a spring music class that would occupy a little more of his time, with the added bonus of being able to play a piano for the first time in years.

For five minutes he had been excited, but now the event loomed over him like a storm cloud, dense and unwavering. Anxiety pricked in his chest and throat. He quickly pushed it to the back of his mind, dancing his fingers along the countertop, mimicking the chords of Chopin's Sonata no. 2 in B flat major. Music would do him good, he decided. He was certain. Positive steps, positive steps.

 

* * *

 

 

The music hall itself was a lot less impressive than Clear's imagination had lead him to believe. It was spacious, practical, and clean. There were several rows of seats taking up most of the space, a small array of musical instruments and stands kept on the left, and in the very centre of the stage was the grand piano. Clear could hardly help himself. Alone in the music hall he sat on the plush velvet seat and lifted the lid. The keys were in immaculate condition, as if carved from ivory and polished by the same steady hands.

He pressed a tentative C. Satisfied with the rich sound, a single note became a soft chord. The sound was so beautiful; aided by the careful construction of the hall to improve acoustics, it rivalled the sound of his grandfather's piano.

"Hello?"

Startled from his reverie, Clear jolted up from his seat and whipped around to see the figure standing in the doorway, only halfway under the threshold. Bright blue hair cascaded over his shoulder like water and striking hazel eyes stared right at him. His hand was still on the door knob.

"I'm sorry!" Clear blurted, bowing at the stranger. "I couldn't help myself!"

The man laughed.

"You don't need to apologise." He smiled. _What a soft face_ , Clear thought to himself. "Do you play?" he asked, closing the door behind him and dropping a heavy looking bag on the nearest chair.

"Yes." Clear moved to one side of his seat, allowing the stranger to sit beside him, who was now looking at him expectantly. "It's been a while. I sold my piano a few years ago, so I'm in need of practise." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. The man smiled at him, expression warm, and Clear felt his cheeks heat up.

"That's what this is here for," the man said, pressing a single key tentatively. "I'm Aoba, by the way."

"I'm Clear."

He waited. Aoba looked at him for a moment. Clear waited for the inevitable queries about his name. _What kind of name is that?_

"That's a pretty name," Aoba said, eyes glancing up. "It matches your hair!" he commented, before turning back to the piano, fingers brushing against the ivory. Clear blinked, unable to respond. He was grateful for his mask, hiding his pink cheeks and nervously nibbling at his bottom lip.

“Do you play?” Clear asked. Aoba shook his head.

“Unfortunately not. I'm a singer myself, though my Grandmother keeps telling me understanding piano is essential,” Aoba says with a soft smile on his lips. Clear could only chuckle with him, brushing the keys himself.

“She's right,” Clear says. “I could teach you, if you like?”

A sudden surge of anxiety flooded Clear's heart and throat. The possibility of rejection was dangled in front of his face, but the light in Aoba's hazel eyes, the heat under his own skin pushed him and lit the fire in his belly in a new sensation. It had been years since Clear had felt this fire. It licked and teased at the flesh of his fingertips, a kind of anxiety that Clear hadn't felt in a long time: exhilaration.

“Sure.” Aoba stretched his arms upwards, revealing the tanned and firm looking skin of his abdomen beneath his shirt. Clear blinked and laser focused his attention back to the piano, mouth suddenly dry at the sight. Behind his mask he worried his lower lip between his teeth.

Matters were only made worse when Aoba leaned down to pull out his phone and the small of his back was revealed. His skin was dark in contrast to his navy shirt, and the dimples just above the hem of his pants suggested he was toned, too. Clear gulped audibly. 

Pulling out his phone, Aoba flicked through until he found the calendar. “Thursday afternoons are free for me.” Aoba looked at him, waiting for an answer. It was so easy for him, to exist, to function.

And that was that. It had been so easy, to dive into the unknown, to do something that he wanted. To offer, to receive. Aoba tapped in his phone number, and Clear gave him his own. It was simple, but spontaneity seemed so foreign to Clear. He imagined moments like this as something he would have to work for, a quality he would never have, or maybe lost in the fray of his existence, burnt up in the mess of his past.

The moment was over before he could savour it. Other people began to file into the music room, some carrying cases of various instruments, others without. Aoba didn't make a move to stand up from the piano seat, so neither did Clear. A young man no older than 25 shuffled his way to centre stage, clearing his throat loudly, asking for the attention of the small gathering of students.

The class went by smoothly. Clear remained at the piano while Aoba moved to stand with the other singers. They started easy, with a piece from _Les Misérables_. It felt good for Clear to have his fingers at the ivory of a grand piano again, to dance along the keys and make music. In the acoustics of the hall, and with the accompaniment of an ensemble of instruments and singers, it felt even better than it had before. Chills ran down his spine as the harmony came together, each instrument working together in precision, creating sounds that made Clear's heart beat faster, and fed the fire in his belly.

He pretended not to be overwhelmed with emotion during Aoba's solo. His voice was so pure, so sweet and delicate. It cut through the air like fine glass, rang in Clear's ears like the strong chime of a church bell.  

“ _A heart full of love, a heart full of song_ ,”

For a brief moment, Clear could have hated him and his voice as soft as air. But it wasn't hate that bubbled in his gut, brought colour to his cheeks like a fever. Clear was reminded of Cleopatra, empathising all too much with her desperate yearning, calling out for Anthony, though perhaps a touch less dramatic. Maybe Clear had delved too deeply into fictional worlds and romances, spent too long alone. He remembered vividly the downward glance of a doctor who had discussed his symptoms, and the distasteful tone in which he spoke: _Idealisation of those who show you kindness. It gets you nowhere._

The class ended fairly abruptly, and Clear was out in an instant. The room had felt too small, everyone was too close, he needed fresh air, and he needed to go home. Before he had a chance to turn around and check if Aoba had caught up with him, Clear hurried to the bike rack and rode home. He didn’t know what caused the surge of energy, whether it was nerves or adrenaline, or the chipper beat in his heart after he’d heard Aoba singing and the familiarity of the piano at his fingertips and the warm sensation of music.

The night rolled on too quickly and by the time it was too late to get anything done, Clear realised he had done very little at all. He blinked himself back to reality, curled his hands around the hot mug of tea in front of him and took a deep breath through his nose. He sat there for however long, he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t remember, but the last mouthful was cold and had lost its taste. The sourness stuck on his tongue, even when he brushed his teeth, and seeped into his bones as he crawled into bed.

What had it been like five hours earlier when he had felt something other than a dull ache in his stomach? Clear focused, closed his eyes and tried to remember the thrill of playing again. Like looking at a blurry photograph from his childhood, he couldn’t quite remember the feeling, but he knew it had been there. He daren’t poke the embers within him in case he put them out completely, when he could let them rest, wait for an opportunity to let them ignite again. But for now, all he felt was emptiness, swallowing him whole and suffocating him, his chest tight and eyes hot. His limbs felt heavy and weak, as if the weight of the sheets had pinned him down completely and his muscles had simply atrophied in the time it took for him to walk from the bathroom to bed.

His phone buzzed from the bedside, and on the cusp of sleep, Clear reached out to grab it.

 

> **_Aoba:_ ** _I missed you on the way out! It was nice to meet you. See you Thursday. :)_

Clear took a shaking breath and put his phone back. All of a sudden, whatever it was that was in front of him no longer seemed unconquerable.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite everything: yesterday’s success, the warm sunshine seeping in through the windows, the gentle birdsong of the morning, Clear was still incredibly irritated with himself. He’d slept well that night, happy that he’d made a friend in that brief space of time, and reassured that he hadn’t dreamt it, but the anxiety of the coming Thursday was clinging to his coattails. It was a battle between Clear’s frustration at himself and the apprehension that sat in his gut, and made it hard to breathe if he dwelled on it for too long.

Work had been a bearable escape, giving him something to occupy his time and forcing him to think about something other than teaching Aoba piano. He wondered briefly if Aoba would sing again, but shook the thought from his mind as quickly as it had appeared. As always he smiled brightly at everyone in the library, offered to make Marge tea and helped her unpack new deliveries, and as always she regarded him with a gentle smile and a nod.

“Clear.”

Broken from his mild concentration, Clear whirled around at the call of his name. Mizuki stood before him, looking somewhat dishevelled.

“Mizuki-san!” Clear said under his breath, smiling warmly.

“It’s been awhile, huh,” Mizuki said just as quietly, returning Clear’s bright expression. “When do you get off?”

Clear glanced at his watch. “I should be off in the next half an hour if I’m not needed after five,” he replied. Mizuki nodded, and agreed to hang around in the study area until Clear was ready to go.

Mizuki’s presence had put a little skip in his step. They’d shared accommodation in their first year of University but had since separated as Clear had moved back in with his brothers and their schedules pulled them further apart than either of them would have liked. Meetings like this were few and far between and always lightened Clear’s mood. Mizuki was aware of Clear’s entire personality, knew him from the inside out, and that kind of trust and openness was what Clear really needed more than anything. Had things been different, they might have ended up together.

With his little burst of energy, Clear managed to finish on time, and took Mizuki out of the Library into the warm open air. He gently grabbed Clear’s arm and led him to a small coffee shop not far from where he worked, bought them both coffee and sat Clear down in a booth towards the back. Secluded and safe, Clear mused. He pulled his mask from behind his ears and placed it on his knee so he could drink, and felt safe enough to do so without the pressure of being in the middle of a busy café.

“I’ve missed you, Mizuki-san,” Clear said, taking a small sip of coffee. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah… you too Clear. I missed you too,” Mizuki replied, keeping his attention on Clear.

Clear felt something heavy in the air, but he wasn’t nervous or afraid. It was a strange sensation, anticipating what would inevitably come next. He could have said the words for him. The coffee was beginning to burn against the palms of his hands, but it was a distraction, a sensation, so Clear kept his hands firm around the mug, feeling the heat prick at his skin. Mizuki looked lonely in only a way Clear could understand, the kind of loneliness masked by soft smiles and bright eyes. But with his elbows inside the arms of his chair, chapped lips, and the slightly tense brow, Mizuki looked smaller than ever.

“How have you been?” Clear said finally. He put his cup back on the table and entwined his fingers in his lap.

“Stressed,” Mizuki said, “but faring better than last year.” Clear nodded in understanding, brief memories flashing in his mind - the two of them going without sleep, Mizuki in particular skipping classes, threatening to drop out. They were both glad to have a better grasp this year. “And you?”

Clear took a breath through his nose.

“I’m okay.”

Mizuki raised an eyebrow, to which Clear shrugged. He wasn’t sure what else there was to say. He was okay, getting through each day, still on time to every class, on top of his school work. There was nothing that would single him out as being anything less than okay, nothing that would identify him as anything other than totally average. He liked the invisibility of being normal; a Healthy Human in the eyes of his classmates and professors. It was easier that way, easier than having people walk on eggshells around you.

“You know I’m always--”

“Mizuki-san,” Clear cut him off, avoiding eye contact. “I really am okay. I’ve signed up for extra-curricular music classes,” he continued, flexing his fingers, remembering the silken sound of the orchestra.

“That’s great!” Mizuki said. He grabbed his drink and waited for Clear to continue.

“They have a grand piano,” Clear started. “It looks just like my Grandfather’s. The acoustics in that room are fantastic, I’ve hardly heard anything like it, and the singers are--” Clear stopped himself and met Mizuki’s gaze, now glistening in shared excitement. Nibbling his lip, he continued, “There’s one singer that has the most beautiful voice.”

“You’re disgusting,” Mizuki teased, kicking him under the table.

“Mizuki-san! You’re so awful!” Clear whined, recoiling.

“You’re blushing and everything!” Mizuki laughed again, leaning back in his seat, and Clear found himself laughing too. It bubbled out of him, light and airy and unexpected.

The rest of the afternoon passed like that, with the tension out of the air and Clear’s anxiety faded into the back of his mind, forgotten. In his heart, Clear knew that Mizuki would always be there for him, even if there was distance between them, but he always forgot how it felt to be with him, the reality of his warm smile and the easy atmosphere that surrounded him. He always felt much more human when he was with Mizuki.

When they parted, Mizuki pulled him into a hug, soft and assuring. Physical contact wasn’t something that Clear was always good with, but Mizuki was familiar; he was safe.

“Take care of yourself, Clear,” Mizuki said as they pulled apart. Clear nodded.

“You as well, Mizuki-san.”

Mizuki’s parting smile was lopsided and bright and stayed with Clear as he walked back to his apartment in the light of the dusk as the sun began to set. With the energy he’d worked up spending time with Mizuki, he stopped by a convenience store on his way home and got several necessary and long overdue groceries for dinner, and an iced coffee for the next morning.

The rest of the evening passed in a slow blur. Hours dissolved into minutes, some minutes felt as though they stretched for eternity. For the first time in a few days, both his brothers were home and helped him clean up after they ate in relative silence, the space between them empty and cold. Al and Phi took his empty bowl from between his arms and cleared the dishes, barely exchanging a word between them. Clear wondered when they had become so vastly distant from him, how long it would be before he lost them, too. A shudder passed down his spine. Clear didn’t want to lose his brothers but lacked the qualities to look after them properly. He could barely look after himself.

Phi placed a cup of green tea in front of him, glancing at him for a brief moment with a guarded expression. Clear nodded a thanks, curled his fingers around the cup. It was warm.

“I saw Mizuki-san today,” Clear said softly. The two turned from what they were doing, and Al returned to the table.

“It’s been a while, right?” he asked. Clear nodded.

“It was nice to see him again. He looks healthy,” Clear mused, taking a sip of his tea.

“There’s a girl who comes to the bar sometimes,” Al began. “She’s pretty. I think I might talk to her.”

Clear remained quiet, kept his eyes on his brother. He knew very little about what they did when they were away from home, only that they worked and sometimes were too busy to come home. He wasn’t even entirely sure what their working hours were. It had been a very long time since either of them had opened up to him, and with that little snippet, Clear felt like he had something to grasp at, to keep his family close, to give him something back.

Al continued to talk about this girl - Clara - and what he knew of her. He told them that she liked glitter; he could see that she wore glitter on her chest to accentuate her collarbones, and she smelt like cheap perfume, but he liked that. He liked that she had wear and tear. Her hair was blonde, but he had never seen it in the daylight, only under the dim lighting of the bar. She liked sweeter cocktails, like Sex on the Beach and Perini.

“She sounds fun,” Phi said. “Take her out to lunch.”

Clear needn’t have contributed much else to their conversation, but was content to listen, to be a part of their lives like this. He couldn’t live his life with them; they were separate from him, and lived in an entirely different world, but if they would share their stories with him, he was at ease with that.

When he got into bed, he didn’t have trouble breathing, didn’t feel his limbs shake the way they usually did. The warmness in his stomach oozed through him like honey and he was able to drift to sleep easily. A calm had settled over him that both scared and comforted him; it was a new sort of calm that he wasn’t familiar with. The exhilaration of the previous evening was something he knew and understood, but calm was strange. His quieter moments were usually more confusing, more disoriented than comfortable. Hardly ever were they easy.

 

* * *

 

Clear was grateful that he’d gotten himself an iced coffee the day prior because Thursday morning was bitter and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth in the night. He wasn’t in the mood to get coffee from his regular place. The sun was out and was warm enough with the lack of a breeze, so Clear perched himself on a bench to catch up on his reading for next week’s class, iced coffee in hand, mask over his mouth and nose as usual. He’d considered leaving it behind but it provided a sense of security that he was unwilling to relinquish, as if it hid him completely and acted as a camouflage. It made being looked at less frightening.

His phone buzzed in his pocket; Aoba had messaged him.

 

> **_Aoba_ ** _: Do I need to bring anything?_

Clear couldn’t help the small chuckle that bubbled out of his chest. He wondered briefly if Aoba was fretting about today, too.

 

> _No. Just you is fine!_

He’d dug out his old piano books stashed at the back of his wardrobe and beaten some of the dust off of them. There were also some spare sheets of blank music paper that he could hand-draw the notes on if he wanted to teach Aoba to sight-read, so he had that covered. With Aoba being as good a singer as he was, Clear imagined he already had some experience in reading music.

 

> **_Aoba_ ** _: Perfect. I’ll see you soon._

Biting back a smile, Clear shoved his phone back in his pocket and checked his watch; he still had enough time to wander over to the music rooms and set up the practice room. The anticipation had his leg bouncing erratically and Clear had to stop himself from jumping up and heading over there straight away. The exhilaration swirled in his gut and spread to his fingers and legs like electricity. He wasn’t sure which part of the Fight or Flight response he was feeling but he imagined it was closer to Fight than to Flight. He wanted to see Aoba again, and for the first time in a while, it didn’t matter that his palms were sweating and his heart was beating uncomfortably in his chest.

It took him barely ten minutes to reach the music rooms. It was big enough for a decent piano, nothing as pristine as his grandfather’s or even the piano he’d played in class. The wood was aged and scratched, and there was discolouration at the bottom from overuse. Clear sat at the seat and gently played a C major chord. The tuning was fine, thankfully.

Clear was glad to be there alone, that he had time to familiarise himself with the room before Aoba got there. He shrugged off his jacket and folded it neatly on the spare chair in the corner of the room and pulled out his music books. He quickly sent Aoba a text with his location, letting out a short breath.

He would be okay.

_I can do this._

A click at the door as the handle was pushed open and Clear’s resolve quickly dissolved into anxiousness. Aoba looked a little dishevelled himself and his cheeks were flushed from the cool outside air. He slid past the door and dropped his bag beside the piano easily.

“Good afternoon, Aoba-san.”

“Have you been here long?” he asked easily. Clear stood from the piano stool, making space for Aoba to take a seat.

“Not at all, only a few minutes,” he answered, carefully omitting that he came early on purpose.

“Okay,” he smiled sweetly, “I was worried I was running late.”

Clear hoped his reciprocating smile reached his eyes as he was still wearing his mask. He’d considered removing it but now he was certain he’d have to wait for his own flushed cheeks and nervous lip-nibbling to calm down before he could even consider pulling it down.

Pulling up a chair, he sat beside Aoba who had now shed his own jacket and moved to tie his long hair from his face. Clear shuffled close enough to lean over him and reach the keys, setting the piano book in his lap for a moment.

“We’ll start by identifying each note,” Clear began, “unless you know some piano already?” Aoba shook his head, and Clear continued. Focusing on each key, Clear allowed himself to zone out of whatever panic had risen in his stomach and become as calm as if he were playing alone, or teaching one of his brothers like he did when he was younger.

His fingers danced over each note from C to B, and pressed a few different chords within the scale. Aoba was listening and nodding along paying close attention, mimicking Clear’s movements a scale higher with slender fingers and careful movements, without the ease that Clear was moving. He couldn’t help but smile beneath the mask, and as quickly as the nervousness came, it disappeared. Clear felt at ease noting down each note on the plain music sheets for Aoba once he’d grasped a couple of chords.

“To help you remember, the top bar spells the English word for face,” Clear said, drawing a small smiley face above the top bar and writing ‘F A C E’ in the neatest English he could manage. Aoba grinned and nodded.

“That’s cute,” he muttered softly, pressing the F, A, C and E keys gently.

“It’s a trick my grandfather taught me,” Clear smiled, retracting his hand from the paper. Aoba glanced at him.

“Is your grandfather good?” he asked.

“He was, yes.”

Aoba was silent for a moment, his fingers brushing lightly over the slightly yellowed ivory of the keys, his other hand clenching in his lap. A pang of something familiar yet indefinable rose in Clear’s chest and he found his eyes beginning to sting. Clear’s fingers trembled ever so slightly and he gripped his pencil a little tighter.

“Here,” Clear muttered, quickly reaching out and sketching in a few chords, “see if you can read these.”

Aoba obliged and didn’t press the topic, though Clear could feel the questions hanging in the air. As he fumbled looking for the appropriate keys for the first chord, Clear wondered if Aoba would ever ask, and subsequently would Clear be able to answer? Did he have it in him to speak about his grandfather to someone other than Mizuki? He wondered if Aoba thought of him as someone who was fragile, as someone who would break if his heart were to beat too hard in his chest.

He swallowed the rising anger in his throat, repressed it, and crushed it beneath reason. Aoba had not asked, and he did not have to answer. _I can cross that bridge when I come to it,_ he told himself.

Aoba’s fingers hesitated over the keys, unsure of which notes would make up the chord Clear had sketched for him, and grinned up at him apologetically.

“Here,” Clear said, understanding. Placing his hand over Aoba’s, he mimicked the correct shape and guided his fingers to the right keys. Aoba’s fingers were smaller than his but much more elegant, beautifully slender, and so tanned next to his bony, pale digits. His skin was warm, radiating from him in a soothing glow, and Clear just stopped himself imagining how those fingers would feel trailing lightly across his ribs.

When he realised he was lingering, he drew his hand back as if he’d been burnt. “There you go,” he said breathlessly, signalling for Aoba to continue, and the moment was over.

The rest of the lesson passed easily, with Aoba successfully reading a simple piece of music and playing it at a decent pace.

“Thank you for this.” Aoba smiled at him, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Clear managed to meet his eyes, thankful for the cover of his face mask.

“It was a pleasure, Aoba-san,” he said earnestly. When Aoba didn’t move for a moment, Clear wondered if there was something else he was supposed to have said, a social cue he had missed. He searched his mind for something he’d done wrong, before Aoba interrupted him.

“Should I pay you?” He asked abruptly. Clear blinked, then stood quickly, almost knocking his chair over as he went.

“No!” he shook his head vigorously, “Don’t trouble yourself with it. I’m hardly qualified enough to expect payment for something like this.” Clear bowed slightly and fumbled with the fabric at the end of his sleeves.

“Then let me take you for lunch,” Aoba replied without hesitation. “Unless you’ve already eaten?” he finished after a moment of silence. Clear shook his head slowly and fiddled with his fingers.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, Aoba-san.”

“It would be a pleasure!” Aoba took a step towards the door, inviting him to follow with an outstretched palm. “There’s a great _udon_ place not far from campus.”

Clear nodded and trailed closely behind Aoba, who now had his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he lead the way off campus. His presence made it hard to concentrate, Clear thought as they turned onto the main street, now side by side. He made Clear’s heart beat erratically and sent shocks of anxiety down his spine and seemed to set his nerves alight, and yet calmed and relaxed him all at once. Aoba was easy to talk to. He held himself with confidence and moved gracefully from place to place as if the ground was paved for him. Clear didn’t feel in control, but he didn’t mind following Aoba.

Originally he had told himself that he would teach Aoba, say goodbye, and return home as soon as possible to heat up left over congee and do whatever useless housework he could do to distract himself from whatever embarrassment he was sure to inflict upon himself. Instead he was stepping over the threshold of a small restaurant that smelt faintly of jasmine, only two steps behind a man he’d met only days ago.

Aoba sat them at a small table in the corner away from the other handful of customers sat closer to the door. It was only a few moments before a waitress presented them with two bowls of miso and Aoba ordered for the both of them, to which Clear was grateful for.

“This is generous of you, Aoba-san,” Clear said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Thank you for taking time out to teach me piano,” Aoba grinned before taking a sip of his own miso.

Without much of a thought, Clear pulled his mask from his face, and folded it neatly on the table, before bringing the broth to his lips. It hadn’t occurred to him that this would be the first time Aoba saw his full face, and it wasn’t until his eyes met Aoba’s that he realised.

He looked at Clear with wide eyes and the faint dusting of a blush against his cheeks before taking a breath and averting his gaze quickly. Clear smiled, cupping his bowl. Whatever anxiety would have formed was quickly replaced by a much warmer feeling, a pleasant jitter in his heart. Aoba smoothed out his napkin with hesitant fingers, eyes still focused on the table.

“You don’t have to answer this,” he began, “but I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Aoba hesitated to lick his lip nervously, “Why do you wear a mask?”

Clear had been expecting it, but dread wasn’t his initial reaction. He placed his miso back on the table and shifted to lean on his elbows.

“My grandfather was very ill,” he said, “I wore the mask to prevent him from getting worse. I wear it now purely out of habit, I suppose.” Clear shrugged.

Aoba nodded slowly, dragging his finger along the rim of his own bowl, searching for a response. Clear couldn’t help but smile at his nervousness. It was almost ironic that their positions had swapped so suddenly.

“It’s also good for the cold,” Clear grinned, tapping his nose, “keeps me warm.”

Aoba let out a breath through his nose and smirked, meeting Clear’s gaze.

“It should be warming up soon. Maybe you won’t need to wear it so much.” Aoba quirked an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you’re right, Aoba-san.”

Only a few more moments passed before the waitress presented them with their food and successfully shattered whatever had been hovering in the atmosphere between them. The meal passed comfortably and pleasantly regardless. Clear found it easy to talk to Aoba, found himself opening up in a way that he hadn’t done since his conversation with Mizuki.

“My brother’s ill too,” Aoba said, poking at his food. “He’ll be okay, though. I just need to help him build up his strength.”

Clear recognised the sense of responsibility in Aoba’s voice, the way he held himself and his shoulders slumped forward and he looked suddenly so much smaller than he had when he led Clear into the restaurant.

He rested his chopsticks against the side of his bowl.

“He is lucky to be your brother,” he said decisively, without a hint of hesitation.

Aoba took a deep breath and waited a moment before meeting Clear’s keen gaze. Smiling softly, he nodded just slightly.

“Thank you.”

With that, the tension passed as easily as sand in a soft breeze. Moving onto lighter topics, Aoba told Clear about his parents, who moved back to Japan shortly after he and his brother were born.

“I live with my Grandmother and my brother, and I see them every year, so it’s not so bad. My dad’s always talking really cryptically so to be perfectly honest I think I can only take so much of him at a time,” he said, grinning.

Clear noticed as Aoba’s shoulders broadened again and resumed his full stature. He wasn’t a large man by any means (he was actually fairly slender and in fact several inches shorter than Clear) but confidence radiated off of him; Aoba had a bigger personality than anyone he’d ever met; he burned bright like the North Star, outshining all others. His brilliance dazzled him, and his image would forever be burnt against the back of his eyelids.

Once they had finished their meal, Aoba led him out of the restaurant, where they paused on the sidewalk. Clear’s fists clenched nervously inside his pockets, fingers tickling with anxiety. _Come back to mine for tea._ The question was poised on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t bring himself to make the words. Pushing personal boundaries, forcing his way into people’s lives... it was an endless cycle and he was desperate to break it. He had to detach himself, force himself to take one day at a time, let Aoba accept him. Unless that was what he’d already done?

Clear felt a cry well up in his chest, bubbling close to his throat. His thoughts were racing and panic was starting to rise in a way he wasn’t used to. Before, he would have blurted out whatever he’d been thinking, expecting people to react in the same way he would.

Before anything could escape his _useless fucking brain_ Aoba spoke.

“Thanks for today,” he said, “I really enjoyed it.” He was smiling.

Clear smiled back without a thought, sighing a breath of relief.

“You too,” he replied.

Easy. How was it always so _easy?_

“Should we make this a weekly thing?”

“Of course, if that’s what you’d like.”

Why was it so easy?

“I’ll see you next week, then.”

Aoba raised his hand in a wave, and turned to leave.

_Wait, don’t go, I haven’t thanked you enough, what do you see in me, why don’t you hate me?_

Aoba was gone. He wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong, or if he’d done something right. What was the right way to behave? Would he see Aoba again, or was that just another lie people told to be polite? He didn’t believe Aoba would be so cruel. He wouldn’t.

_Would he?_

Clear couldn’t feel his legs, or his hands, or any part of his body. It moved on its own, turning in the opposite direction, and took him home. It carried him swiftly through the front door and into the bathroom. His body’s hands turned on the tap and splashed cold water over its face.

Clear assumed it was cold, but he couldn’t really feel it. He’d retreated. His mind was too busy panicking to control the body he inhabited, so it took over for him.

 _Maybe I will reward my body,_ Clear thought briefly. There was cocoa butter in the cupboard which he would rub softly into his skin, over his scars. He would drink water with a slice of lime; small treats to reward his body for looking after itself.

There was a dull sensation against his arm, and his body’s head turned to get a better look. His brother’s hand rested there, gripping his arm gently. He looked like he wanted Clear to come back, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to come back. He wasn’t even sure he could yet.

The soft grasp on his arm tugged and his body began to move again as it was commanded. He followed his legs into the hall and onto the couch. A conversation was happening next to him but he was too far away to hear it, like listening to it through wall.

When Clear was finally able to return to his body, the first thing he noted was that his hands were clenched firmly against his trousers, gripping tightly to the soft material. As he became more aware, he consciously relaxed his taught shoulders and took deeper breaths. Al was sitting beside him holding a glass of water. Phi was sitting opposite him on the coffee table with a concerned expression.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Flexing his fingers compulsively, he moved his hand to take the glass of water. His free hand continued to shake and twitch against his leg.

“Are you okay?” Phi asked gently. Clear chose to ignore how careful his brothers were not to touch him.

“Yes,” he whispered after taking a sip. “I’m fine.”

Phi dismissed himself shortly to go to work, leaving Al behind. Clear swallowed the bitterness in his throat at the thought of his brothers having to look after him as if he were a child. He hated how pitiful and dependent he had become.

By evening Clear had managed to shower and make a start on an assignment, though he kept zoning out and hadn’t made much progress. The post-it note beside his laptop clearly read: ‘Phi is at work’ _._ He’d written it after the third time asking Al where Phi had gone, when he would be home, if he was alright. Al had assured him he was not being a burden, but Clear suspected otherwise.

That night it took him a while to get to sleep. An uncomfortable sensation churned his insides and his mind was out of focus, and he found his consciousness had gone elsewhere.

At 3am he texted Mizuki asking if he had any cigarettes. Three minutes later Mizuki replied, telling Clear to go to sleep.

Clear huffed, and almost crushed his phone out of frustration, when another message came through.

> **_Mizuki_ ** _: I’m free tomorrow afternoon if you need to talk?_

He never responded, simply leaving his phone in his limp clutch as he drifted off to sleep, only slightly more at peace with himself. With his mind emptied, Clear sank into deep unconsciousness and slept dreamlessly.

 

* * *

 

 

For the next few days Clear was running on auto-pilot. He turned up to all of his classes, did his homework, and ate dinner every evening, but none of it engaged him. He didn’t see much of his brothers either, not that he could recall, and time seemed to pass in front of him while he was too slow to keep up.

On Monday his aunt called, as usual, and she sounded more callous than usual. Her voice was harsh like cutlery scraped against cheap crockery, and just as loud. Clear wondered if she was irritated with him because he was being unusually unresponsive.

“Sorry, I’ve had a long week. I’m very tired,” he apologised. The cheerfulness was sickly sweet on his tongue.

“That’s alright, dear. I’m just worried about you.” Her sincerity was unconvincing, but Clear didn’t really care either way.

They exchanged pleasantries and parted ways.

As he dropped the phone, he noticed a rhythmic thudding against the wall and the unpleasant shrieks of the neighbours fucking. Clear stared at the wall with disinterest and vague disgust. He’d only ever had sex once, but it wasn’t fun, not in the wall-banging, loud exclamations of _yes, god, yes, fuck me harder_ , sort of way.

Lying in bed, Clear trailed his fingertips over the hem of his underwear. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine someone’s lips in place of his hand, dragging his fingers over his cock. Palming himself weakly, Clear began conjuring a face for his fantasy, imagining soft lips and gentle touches against his thigh. He pretended that there was someone that loved him between his legs rather than his cold and clammy hand.

But when a pair of golden eyes glanced up at him from beneath dark lashes, Clear’s hand hesitated. He gritted his teeth, heart racing, and pressed against his cock with the heel of his hand, hips bucking without his permission. Shame welled in his gut and he hated himself but he kept going. Aoba was beautiful, and for once, _just once_ , when he stroked himself alone at night, he thought he could actually come.

Behind closed eyes Clear saw Aoba nuzzling affectionately into his thigh, slender fingers caressing him in his place. He imagined hot puffs of breath against his skin as he shimmied out of his underwear and gripped himself firmly.

He came hard with a grunt, spilling over his hand. He felt dirty and shameful and guilty, but for the first time in a long time, a small part of him was satisfied.

The guilt followed him all the way to class the following day and nearly swallowed him whole when he opened the door and saw Aoba waiting for him at the piano. A loose shirt was draped over his shoulders, slightly tighter around his shoulder blades, sleeves rolled up to his slight shoulders. His hair had been pulled into a bun, revealing the bumps of vertebrae at the base of his neck. Clear felt hot.

Aoba swivelled in his chair, eyes darker than Clear remembered them. His skin wasn’t the same dark flush either, but instead appeared sallow and the smile that spread across his face as he met Clear’s eyes didn’t even reach his cheeks.

“Hi,” he said. Clear sat beside him at the piano. He pulled down his mask.

“Is everything okay?” he whispered, taking note of another student fiddling with a violin in the front row.

Aoba huffed a laugh and closed his eyes.

“I look that bad, huh?” he muttered back. “It’s fine. I was up late helping Sei, that’s all. I’ve had very little sleep.”

Clear nodded his head. They were quiet for a moment, shoulders barely touching. Clear wanted to reach out and hold his hand and squeeze it with everything he had left, even if his skin was cold and his fingers were bony. He wondered to himself if he’d been too blinded by his own pain to even notice the suffering of others, if Aoba was just as sad as him.

The door behind them opened and a student Clear didn’t recognise greeted Aoba, which was his cue to pull his mask back up. Aoba stood and greeted the stranger in a hug, and the moment was over. The memory of the previous night flashed in his mind and embarrassment burned behind his eyes again before he could swallow it down, shifting uncomfortably as heat pooled in his abdomen. He bit his lip under his mask and stared down at the ivory of the piano, attempting to steady his breathing.

Once the other students filed in and the teacher finally emerged from the back office, the class began. He was handed a worn music book about an inch thick and stained at the edges. Clear thumbed through the pages until he found the piece he was looking for, an old German piece that he couldn’t pronounce.

When class was over, Clear grabbed his bag and made to leave, but Aoba caught him before he could dash out.

“Do you have any other classes today?” he asked, fingers curled around Clear’s sleeve. He glanced down at his arm, then back to Aoba, shaking his head. “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

Clear took a deep breath and nodded.

“I’d love to, Aoba-san.”

Aoba grabbed his bag and followed Clear to the bike rack outside of the music building, waving goodbye to the student Clear hadn’t recognised. They both hung their bags over the handlebars as Clear walked the bike off campus.

June was fast approaching; the sun was hot and prickled against Clear’s skin. Walking through the park in the late afternoon allowed the breeze to waft over them soothingly. Opposite the heath was a small coffee shop Clear hadn’t had the energy to visit in a long time.

They sat on the patio facing the common, warm coffee in hand and a comfortable silence between them. Clear imagined Aoba wasn’t ready to go home just yet, but instead needed to be outside, in company that didn’t demand anything of him. He hated the lie he was living, the façade that he was independent and didn’t need the constant validation of others. He knew it would only last so long, and that Aoba would find out and he would distance himself, but for now Clear allowed himself the company without reprimand.

“It’s weird,” Aoba said to no one, eyes still focused ahead of him. Clear turned to look at him. “I dislike a lot of people, but you…” he paused, and Clear’s throat constricted painfully.

“...I like you.”

A pair of swallows chirped overhead and flew across the common. The waitress behind them cleared cups and saucers noisily. A child on the grass shrieked with laughter. Clear took a series of shallow breaths, and unsure of what to do, took a sip of his coffee, blood rushing in his ears as his heart seemed to stutter in his chest. He didn’t want to think of what would happen when Aoba saw how feral he could be in his darkest moments.

“I like you, too.” Clear mumbled. Aoba nodded and thumbed the side of his mug thoughtfully.

“That was totally embarrassing, by the way,” Aoba said, “don’t tell anyone.”

Clear let out a laugh and covered his mouth in surprise. Aoba glanced at him and grinned, laughing too, like bells in the gentle breeze, and the tension was gone. Clear marvelled at Aoba’s ease, the remarkable nature that shone through him. He wondered what someone like Aoba saw in someone like him, someone so desolate and broken that there wasn’t much left. He ignored the part of his brain that told him that he was just a distraction and would be discarded when he stopped being useful. He let himself enjoy this moment, and he would keep it for himself.

This is how it would be for the two of them for the weeks to come. After music class the two of them would wander over the heath and get coffee, and as the weather was getting warmer they would always sit outside or take their coffee onto the grass and lie in the sun. On colder days they would saunter to a spare music room and work on Aoba’s lessons.

On one particularly warm Tuesday afternoon Aoba had brought a blanket and Clear had made the both of them a bento that morning. Clear didn’t realise how at ease he was until after they had finished and Aoba’s eyes were closed and the two of them were lying together in comfortable silence. Spending time at Aoba’s side was getting easier, he thought quietly.

That evening, when Clear had come home with a smile still quirked at the edges of his lips, his brothers were waiting for him. Neither one of them spoke.

“Sorry I’m late back,” Clear said, dropping his bag by the door, “I was with Aoba-san again this afternoon.” Al nodded, but he was frowning. Clear cocked his head. “What’s up?”

The twins shared a discouraging look before Phi spoke up. “We’re worried about you,” he admitted. Al looked at his thumbs. “We want you to be happy, and we’re glad you are, but….” He seemed at a loss, fidgeting with his sleeves. “We just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Understanding set in, and warmth spread through his chest at his brothers’ concern.

“I appreciate it, but you don’t have to worry,” he smiled.

 _Aoba wouldn’t do that sort of thing_.

Aoba had a knack for bringing the best out in Clear in a frightening and foreign way that Clear wasn’t sure what to do with. He was discarding his mask more and more often, laughing more than he had in so long, and often found himself with energy to spare at the end of the day. He had a kind smile and soft eyes and he would graze Clear with a gentle touch every now and again that reminded him he was still there. Clear couldn’t imagine for even a second that Aoba would do anything to harm him.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a Thursday in June, and the sun was seeping through the partially closed blinds. The air was stagnant and hot. Clear opened the window.

“I think you’ll like this one,” Clear said as he flipped through the pages of his favourite piano book. “Brahms. Very light, very soothing.”

“It’s not Hungarian Dance, is it?” Aoba grimaced.

Clear chuckled, “No, don’t worry.”

Aoba shuffled to the left hand side of the stool – he always preferred playing in a lower key – and Clear slid in beside him. Their private music sessions were becoming less like lessons than duets. Aoba was picking up piano quickly and they often played pieces squashed together on the old piano stool, bear arms brushing as their fingers danced over the old and stained ivory keys.

Taking the discarded pencil, Aoba began to pencil in a few notes to make it easier for him to read. Clear was pleased at his work; Aoba was becoming more confident in his abilities with only a few mistakes here and there. Clear noticed that as he pondered, Aoba habitually chewed on his pencil, often leaving little teeth marks in the wood. He rolled it between his slightly chapped lips before flipping it in his hand and jotting down a note. Averting his attention to Aoba’s messy cursive was a welcome distraction from his plump, soft looking mouth.

“Ready?” Clear asked as Aoba put the pencil back on the stand. He flexed his fingers once, twice, then nodded.

This was one of Clear’s favourite pieces of music. He loved the thickness of the beginning, the beautiful movement of the song. His Grandfather and his Aunt played it once at Christmas while he and his brothers had eaten warm scones and apricot jam. It had sounded much more beautiful back then on a piano that could have been cut from marble, such a work of art that it was. It had been delicately decorated in fine gold trimmings, but not so much that it ruined the smooth wood. He almost felt guilty reliving the memory on a dingy piano that sounded its age and hammers that needed urgent replacing. But playing it by Aoba’s side, in a place where he felt happier than he had for so many years, he didn’t think his Grandfather would be at all displeased.

Aoba played diligently, brows knotted in concentration as he worked the chords. Clear smiled at the image juxtaposed with the gentle ease with which his hands moved; he thought Aoba didn’t need to think so hard on it. The sun shone in from Aoba’s left hand side, silhouetting him as they played, dancing off his brilliant golden eyes, highlighting the subtle definition of his toned arms. Clear averted his gaze back to the music book, fully aware of the blush creeping up his neck, quickly moving to flip the next page, pretending to ignore the warmth of Aoba’s shoulder against his.

Elbows and knees brushed together as they played as if they were dancing. Clear hated himself for imagining the romance in playing a duet, but he could hardly help it. He hated how idyllic Aoba seemed to be in his eyes. For so long he’d been told that his perception of others was skewed beyond recognition, that he put people on pedestals who did not deserve to be there. On reflection, he knew that he had been wrong. He knew Mizuki had not been the solid rock he could cling to whenever he needed it, but that didn’t make him any less wonderful. He often tried to imagine what Aoba was like to everyone else, if everything Clear saw in him was a lie, but he would always stop himself.

 _I’m going to allow myself this happiness_ , he decided quietly to himself. _I’m going to do something nice for myself._

In a disquieting moment, Clear was further in the unknown than he had ever been before. He was in territory that he had never explored; he would open himself up in all his vulnerability.

It took Clear a second to realise the song had ended, that Aoba was looking at him as his fingers wavered over the keys. How long had he been like that?

“Sorry,” Clear mumbled, “I lost myself for a moment.”

Aoba didn’t respond, nor did he move as Clear had expected him to.

Unease pricked at his chest as he waited.

“If—if there’s ever anything I can do for you,” Aoba started hesitantly, “just let me know.”

Clear felt his lip wobble pathetically, and he suddenly wished he hadn’t left his mask in his bag. He kept his gaze focused on his fingers as his hands sagged from the piano and sunk slowly into his lap. He looked as if he was melting, but his skin was on fire.

“I’m fine.” His voice cracked and he felt sick. Aoba’s hand twitched.

 _Please don’t touch me,_ Clear thought desperately. _You’ll break me._

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

His throat stung, and he blinked, staring into wide, hazel eyes. He hadn’t meant to shout, what was wrong with him? He’d been doing so well. His lungs began to constrict and he couldn’t breathe, as if he were drowning from the inside out. A shock ran through his twitching fingers, his heart shook against his ribs and suddenly the air felt thick and heavy on his lips.

Aoba stood and clear cut panic ran through him. He couldn’t let Aoba see this, he thought frantically as he backed against the door.

“Sit down, Clear, it’s alright.” Aoba’s voice was like silk, barely audible against the roar of blood in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered through ragged breaths, “I’m sorry.”

Aoba didn’t respond, only reached out a hand and circled his fingers around Clear’s bony wrist, feather light and pleasantly warm. Against the stillness of a foreign body Clear noticed how hard he was shaking and took a deep breath: in, hold... and out, and repeat. Blinking hard, he made an effort to focus his vision as Aoba steered him slowly back to the stool. Once, twice, three times he blinked but his vision fogged up, and only when a wet drop fell into his lap did he realise he was crying.

A warm arm hesitantly encircled his shoulders, but he didn’t feel trapped, he could run if he wanted. When a thumb began to rub soothing circles into his arm, any resistance he felt left as quickly as it had come. Clear gritted his teeth harshly until his jaw began to ache and curled his fingers into tight fists in his lap. He wanted to hate Aoba, to push him away, to be able to let go. He was sure Aoba would hate him now, seeing him so pathetic and pitiful; seeing him as he truly was. The mask was gone, and Clear was vulnerable.

An echo in his mind insisted that he would stay, that he wouldn’t hurt him like this. With his arm around Clear, his chin on the top of his head, his shirt soaking up tears, Aoba was caressing Clear’s heart in a way no one else had before.

 _Let me in_ , he seemed to say, _I won’t hurt you._

Clear’s cheeks eventually dried, Aoba wiping residue tears away with his thumb as gently as you would a baby. He kissed Clear’s cheeks like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, and the throbbing in his chest seemed to ebb.

“I brought my bike today,” Aoba said, offering Clear his water bottle. Clear raised an eyebrow and accepted the drink. “I’ll take you home, just to make sure you get there safely,” he explained.

Clear didn’t have it in him to resist, so he took a drink and took Aoba’s offered hand, allowing himself to be lead to the bike racks.

Aoba cycled beside him across the empty path, drifting as if on air, his white shirt fluttering against his ribs, the setting sun bathing him in a silken gold. He followed behind Clear on the main roads and up the path to his apartment complex. He propped up his bike beside Clear’s and walked beside him to the main door.

Clear turned and fiddled with his key, battled with himself over what was acceptable.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” Aoba responded enthusiastically, “let me just lock up my bike.”

Clear took a shuddering breath and nodded, opening the door and waiting for Aoba to return.

Al and Phi were waiting for Clear again when he opened the door, both recoiling slightly when Aoba followed him inside. Clear made introductions and Aoba bowed politely, which to Clear’s horror they did not reciprocate. He would have words later, not that Aoba seemed to mind.

“Can I get you some tea, Aoba-san?” Clear offered as his brothers dismissed themselves to their rooms.

“Yes, please,” Aoba smiled. “And stop with the honorific. We’re not in Japan anymore, you don’t have to use it with me,” he grinned, moving to take a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Ah—my apologies,” he bowed slightly before moving to make the tea. “Is Jasmine okay?”

Aoba nodded, and at Clear’s offer moved to sit at the coffee table where he waited patiently in silence. Clear had never had a guest. Clear was conscious of the sad looking succulent on the windowsill, the coffee-stained newspapers and other general mess on the coffee table. He heard Aoba humming something under his breath and was taken back to the first day they met; he remembered Aoba’s soft expression as he sang, the raw passion and sweetness of his voice, the subtle roll of his tongue and the richness of each note. He was overwhelmed for a brief moment, before coming back to the present.

As if nothing had happened less than half an hour ago they sat side by side, cups in hand, basking in the orange glow of the setting sun. They began in silence but gave way to light and nonsensical conversation. Aoba mentioned that his brother’s birthday was coming up and that there’d be a small party for him at his house.

“You should come,” he said, “He’d like to meet you. He’s a fan of anyone who can get me to sit and learn anything new.” Clear blushed into his cup and agreed.

The tea started to turn cold in their hands and the radiator hummed to life as a chill set in the air. Their knees drew up to their chests as they huddled under a blanket, shoes discarded under the coffee table. Conversation turned heavier as they talked about their families, and Clear felt the familiar disquiet in his chest. The topic sat on the tips of their tongues.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Clear said softly and Aoba’s warm hand caressed his cold one comfortingly. “I find it hard to get close to people and I’m always afraid they’ll hurt me because I’m convinced they all hate me.” Aoba moved to interrupt but he continued anyway. If he didn’t say it now he wouldn’t have the courage to again. “But I trust you not to do that. I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I don’t believe you’re the kind of person to treat me badly. I don’t know what a person like you sees in a person like me. I’m barely human.”

Aoba’s hand curled tighter around Clear’s and he realised he was starting to sweat. His body trembled, exhilarated and anxious, and he tried his best to swallow it down, to push it away and ignore it. Aoba shuffled so he was facing him, concern etched into his face. He reached up slowly and caressed Clear’s damp cheek tenderly.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I enjoy your company, Clear. I promise that if I didn’t want to spend time with you, I wouldn’t.” He spoke with absolute certainty and even though it was exactly what he needed to hear, he wasn’t sure he could take it. It sounded so real and there wasn’t a hint of anything but the truth in his voice and Clear found himself wanting desperately to believe it if he didn’t already. His mind was working a mile a minute trying to piece together his feelings, sorting through the immense mess in his heart to make some sort of sense of himself. “I’m sorry you feel so sad all the time,” Aoba said quietly. Clear turned his hand and gripped Aoba’s fingers tightly and felt a little bit more stable.

When he turned his head his gaze locked with Aoba’s, letting himself be soothed by the warm hazel that looked up at him. Aoba’s skin was soft and warm and everything about him reminded Clear of the sun. His existence was bright and brilliant and burst through the cracks around Clear’s heart, shining light and scaring away the darkness.

Before he could stop himself he reached across in one swift movement and kissed the corner of Aoba’s mouth. He hovered briefly, eyes on him, and Clear wondered if he’d made a mistake. Just as he thought he’d ruined everything Aoba turned his head, slid a sweaty hand around his neck and kissed him back.

It started chastely, soft kisses that tested the unfamiliar water they were seconds from diving into together, but Clear didn’t panic about that, because he was with Aoba, and Aoba wouldn’t let him drown.

Aoba’s tongue brushed against Clear’s lips, and he opened willingly. He licked the inside of Clear’s mouth in gentle caresses, lips soft and pliant against his, coaxing him into a comfortable and intimate headspace, and he let him. Clear curled his fingers into the hair at the base of Aoba’s neck, letting the silken strands cascade between his fingers, feeling the curve of his neck and the pulse thrumming under his skin. Clear’s own heart felt as if it could burst through his ribs, as though his whole body was on fire.

Aoba was being so gentle with him, holding Clear’s heart close to his own, breathing life into his lungs and it was so much all at once Clear could hardly bear it. Guilt pooled in his gut as he was reminded of his filthy fantasy and disgust hit him hard, feeling shameful and frustrated at himself.

He pulled away to breathe, but instead a sob escaped him and embarrassment overwhelmed him once again. Aoba didn’t say anything to comfort him, just pulled him close, flush against his body and embraced him, stroking Clear’s hair gently. He hummed something Clear vaguely recognised in his ear as he comforted him, and he seemed to be calm except for the harsh thumping of his heart Clear could feel against his chest through the thin cotton of their shirts.

For the second time that day, Aoba dried Clear’s cheeks with his thumb, and gently kissed him on the forehead, muttering something about heading to bed. There was no intent in his voice, and Clear didn’t feel afraid, so he agreed. Aoba took his hand and Clear led him to the bedroom before quickly dismissing himself to wash his face in the bathroom. While out of sight, he took his medication and washed it down with tap water that left a bitter taste in his mouth. When he returned, Aoba was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking up at him with a warm expression, and Clear couldn’t help but smile back.

They discarded their clothes save for their underwear and climbed under the duvet, limbs tangled together, wrapped up in one another. Aoba tucked his head against Clear’s shoulder and entwined their fingers together.

“Thank you, Clear,” Aoba mumbled against his skin. Clear’s arm around him tightened in response and, with that, Aoba drifted gently to sleep, breathing deep and even in hot puffs against Clear’s chest.

Clear thought that he might love Aoba, more than he ever imagined his weary heart could. Heat pricked at the back of his eyes at the thought, the vast realisation that he was capable of deep love and could be part of a relationship based on truth and trust. The bitterness of his past had faded into a ghostly memory, a cool brush against his mind that didn’t have to haunt him forever, not when there was so much to look forward to in his future. With that thought, he pressed a kiss to Aoba’s forehead and let himself drift into the satisfying haze of sleep.

When he awoke, it was early in the morning before the sun had risen, and the air of his room was cold in contrast to the warmth of the blankets and the soft body wrapped around him. His body began to shake in a strange unsettling anxiety that shivered through him like electricity and he felt his consciousness disconnect again. He heard Aoba sigh faintly beside him, still sleeping soundly, and he brought himself back. He took a deep breath, watching his chest rise and fall as he forced himself to stay together, and gently moved to caress the back of Aoba’s hand.

He didn’t get back to sleep, but he didn’t mind, because he was not alone with his thoughts. He had a warm body beside him, a safety net, someone who would hold him by the hand and kiss him on the cheek when he cried. When Aoba woke up, the sun was pooling in through the curtains and he smiled up at Clear groggily, eyelids still heavy with sleep. Clear rubbed a soothing line down his back. He pondered briefly on the strangeness of the situation; the intimacy of sharing a bed, held close, skin against skin. He didn’t let it bother him, and instead trailed his eyes down Aoba’s body, admiring the stark contrast of tanned skin against chalk white sheets. Aoba’s leg shifted against his and his fingers twitched.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, and Clear smiled in response.

Pulling on a t-shirt, he padded into the kitchen to make coffee. The twins’ shoes had disappeared from their place beside the door, and their bedroom doors were swung open haphazardly. The morning sun was bright through the window, flecks of dust drifting in the light, the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. Clear filled a cup with water and washed his mouth out with a single gulp, using the rest to fill his spray bottle and squirted a generous amount onto the dry jade plant on the windowsill.

Coffee brewed and milk and sugar stirred, Clear padded back to the bedroom where Aoba was now sitting upright wearing yesterday’s shirt, knees pulled up to his chest and focus drawn to the opened curtains. He greeted Clear with a pleasant smile and thanked him for his coffee, circling his hands around the mug and holding it to his chest.

“Next time I go to Japan I have to remember to take American coffee with me,” Aoba mused.

“I’m sure you’d be better off with Italian,” Clear suggested, and Aoba let out a short, breathy laugh. Bathed in the gentle light of the morning, knees knocking together under the sheets and warm coffee cradled close to their chests, they drank in comfortable silence. Clear’s chest was free of the dead weight that usually sat against his sternum every morning and there was no throbbing ache in his bones slowing him down. “Thank you for staying with me last night, Aoba.” A blush crept across his chest as he took a gulp of his coffee. Aoba leant further into him.

“It was my pleasure.” Aoba said softly, flashing him a dazzling smile, eyes warm with something Clear couldn’t identify.

Clear’s heart fluttered pleasantly in his chest and he sighed deeply, settling further back into his pillow and discarding his mug on the bedside table, as did Aoba. Turning to face Aoba, familiar butterflies rose up in his throat. There was barely an inch of space between them, and Aoba’s eyes were lidded in tiredness or something else. Before Clear could begin to worry, Aoba closed the distance between them and caught his lips in a sweet, chaste kiss, not unlike the one they had shared the day prior.

Clear sighed into his lips, caressing his jaw with fingers that trembled only slightly. Aoba’s own hand stroked gentle lines up Clear’s bicep, and trailed feather light touches over his clavicle, coming to rest over Clear’s thumping heart. In a bold move, Clear traced his tongue over Aoba’s lips in invitation, stroking his hand to the back of his neck and cupping his scalp tenderly.

Aoba responded by opening up to him eagerly, rolling his body in a silent question against Clear’s, hooking a leg around his, nails scraping slightly over his skin. Clear’s body jolted in surprise at the sensation, pleasant as it was, and felt himself spurred on. He held Aoba closer, kissing him as if he had the breath of life in his lungs and Clear was a dying man. He drew gentle gasps from Aoba’s mouth, swallowing each and every one, offering his own, unable to stop them spilling from his tongue. Aoba tasted of coffee and his tongue was warm and pliant and licked the inside of Clear’s mouth tantalisingly. His heart was soaring, racing a mile a minute under his skin as the kisses become more frantic and heavy.

“Is this okay?” Aoba panted, pulling back barely a centimetre, breath still mingled with his as his hand trailed over Clear’s chest.

Clear nodded, lips brushing against his in a kiss that was more breath than substance. “Yes,” he whispered, “I want this.”

That was all the encouragement that Aoba needed, nails scraping down Clear’s chest and stomach, teasing over the waistband of his underwear, circling around his hips. Clear rolled above him, kissing fervently along his cheek and jaw, nipping lightly at the skin under his ear, eliciting tiny little moans, soft enough that only Clear would ever hear them.

Resting on his elbow, Clear trailed a hand down Aoba’s side, still peppering sweet kisses over his skin, and skimmed his finger over the elastic of his underwear before boldly trailing a fingertip over the very obvious arousal resting underneath.

“Clear,” Aoba whimpered, legs shaking around him.

“Can I?” Clear breathed, and Aoba nodded enthusiastically, rolling his hips up into the touch, letting out a groan as he cupped his cock through the thin material.

Aoba mirrored his actions, circling a hand over his dick and squeezing gently, pressing his palm up. Clear bucked into his hand, grunting softly, nipping at Aoba’s earlobe. In one swift movement, he slid down Aoba’s chest, kissing and lapping at the hot skin, tasting his pulse against his teeth and circling a wet tongue around perk nipples. Aoba’s body quivered beneath him and he sighed in satisfaction. Pride swelled in his chest as Aoba became undone under his lips and touches.

He mouthed over the - now damp- bulge in Aoba’s underwear before slowly pulling the material down over his hips and discarding them. He’d not done anything like this in so long but he was far from nervous now, encouraged by Aoba’s shudders and needy whimpers, and he nuzzled at his thigh, breathing in his scent. He smelt like sweat and the faint scent of Clear’s detergent.

“Don’t—don’t tease,” Aoba said breathlessly combing his fingers through Clear’s hair, pleading with his eyes. Clear was unable to resist, and boldly licked a stripe up the base of Aoba’s cock, who let out a surprised shriek in response.

Wherever the twins were now, Clear was grateful they were gone.

Aoba’s hips twitched in response to the teasing kisses of Clear’s mouth against his cock, which he took as gentle invitation. Glancing up and catching Aoba’s gaze with his, he swallowed what he could of his arousal, fingers gripping into the soft flesh of his thighs.

“Shit!” he gasped, hands coiling into tight fists in Clear’s hair. The tug against his scalp sent a jolt straight to his groin and he moaned around Aoba’s dick, swallowing more and more of him, bobbing his head slowly up and down.

With Aoba at his mercy, buried deep in his throat, he became acutely aware of his own hunger for more. Something carnivorous and frantic was pumping through his veins and quivering under his skin like electricity. He moaned at the thought, heart thumping erratically against his chest and breathing harshly through his nose, before pulling off, and stroking him slowly but firmly.

“You look good like this, Aoba,” he said softly, gazing at him from between Aoba’s legs. His chest was flushed and heaving with every breath, hair sticking slightly to his forehead with sweat. He bit down a grin and the flush spread from his cheeks to his ears.

“You’re the one who looks good,” Aoba breathed in response, running a soft hand through his hair in a gentle caress. “You’re so beautiful, Clear.”

His breath caught in his chest, a giggle bubbling out of him as he nuzzled into the hot, sticky skin of Aoba’s thigh. He felt so at ease with Aoba, and, overwhelmed with emotion, he climbed up Aoba’s body and kissed him fervently, rocking down and rubbing himself against him. Aoba growled in response, nipping at his bottom lip and sliding his hands through Clear’s hair, holding them close, swallowing his moans. Clear could feel Aoba shuddering with need against him and began to rock with more intent, hooking Aoba’s legs around his waist.

“You’re beautiful, Aoba,” he said between kisses, fingers grazing over Aoba’s ribs, pulling them flush together, “You’re so beautiful.”

Aoba didn’t respond, only tugged down Clear’s underwear impatiently, sucking on his fingers and closing his fist around both of them, squeezing gently. A moan escaped them both and they began to rock in tandem. Clear buried his nose into Aoba’s sweaty temple, kissing his cheek as he moved, feeling Aoba’s trembling hand circling around Clear’s back, fingers gripping his shoulder blade.

Fumbling blindly, unable to break away from Aoba’s grip, unsure if he could stand even a second separate from the soft, warm body beneath him, he reached for the lotion on his bedside table. He flipped the lid with his thumb and pulled back just barely, and Aoba took the hint. He let Clear squeeze a dollop into his hand before slicking the both of them up generously until they were both shiny and wet. Clear was so hard it hurt, and the pearls of precome dripping from the head of Aoba’s cock suggested he was the same.

Aoba giggled breathlessly against Clear’s lips. “Cold,” he explained and Clear nodded in response. His cheeks and chest were a delightful pink and his breathing was laboured with pleasure, biting his bottom lip, barely muffling his sweet and helpless moans. Being with Aoba was liberating, and made him feel good; Aoba had seen him at his most pathetic and was still beneath him, trying to make him feel good, ghosting kisses over his cheeks and lips, scraping fingernails over his spine.

Clear nearly sobbed when Aoba gripped them together again, thrusting weakly against him and they began to rock until they found a rhythm. Aoba’s thighs trembled around him, pulling him closer, chest heaving as he mouthed desperate kisses along his jaw until he found Clear’s lips. They kissed sloppily, hungrily and Clear felt as though he was being devoured but Aoba was stroking so many parts of him so gently, caressing his soul with every thrust and whispering against his skin.

“I’m close,” Clear pants.

“Me too.” Aoba gripped him tighter, cut fingernails digging hard enough to bruise. “Together?”

Clear nodded.

“Together.”

The two of them thrusted frantically, Aoba’s hand pumping and squeezing them together and it was exquisite. The warm, velvety feeling of desire spread through his gut and Clear felt the tell-tale knotting in his groin. Aoba’s body shuddered as he reached his peak and Clear felt his hand waver, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts in his mouth. Little gasps and meaningless mumbles spilled from his lips and Clear couldn’t take it.

“Aoba—don’t stop, keep going, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” His mind was clouded and his heart was beating furiously against his ribs, gasps and moans tumbling into Aoba’s mouth and he swallowed them happily.

With a few final tugs, he came in spurts across their stomachs, spreading ribbons of come over their skin. Aoba milked him through it, shivering violently as he came merely seconds later, a high whine escaping his throat, fingers tight against his skin.

“Shit,” Aoba mumbled hoarsely, and began rubbing soothing circles over Clear’s shoulder blade where a bruise was forming. Once he was released, Clear rolled to his side, arm draped over Aoba’s midriff, pressing a kiss to his temple, nosing damp hair behind his ear.

“I love you,” Clear muttered. He meant it more than he’d ever meant anything before, feeling it right to his core, so much so that it ached. It bubbled from his heart and spilled from his lips and he couldn’t keep it back if he tried. It throbbed and ached to feel this way. Aoba soothed him, stroking a hand over his chest.

“I love you too, Clear,” he said, “I really, really do.”

Clear took in a shuddering breath and nodded. Comfortable silence fell between them, and Clear pulled the duvet above them both. Aoba took his hand, entwining their fingers and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

The two of them smelled of sweat and sex and their breath smelled of coffee, the dampness of their skin cooling in the cold air, so they snuggled down further, pressed together and wrapped around one another. Within moments, Aoba began to doze, breathing steadily and pulse calming to a regular rhythm. It was morning and Clear had work to do, but wrapped in Aoba’s warm arms, he felt exhausted and tired, and let himself drift off into the comforting haze of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The piece Clear and Aoba play together is this one: [Brahms 16 Waltzes, Op.39](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPDqk_9v7vc)  
> Cry with me on tumblr at [godsol](https://godsol.tumblr.com>godsol</a%20href>)


End file.
